Wrapped In Blue
by Ennui Enigma
Summary: A salute to ACD's Adventure of the Three Garridebs. Written from the POV of an inanimate object. Prompt from I'm Nova.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**

 **One-shot dedicated to I'm Nova for her prompt to write a Sherlock story based on an inanimate object's point of view. Had several options to choose from, here's one I chose. Loosely inspired by events from Doyle's original canon The Adventure of the Three Garridebs.**

 **From the POV of… well, you will quickly figure it out. If this object were to have a name, what might one name this item so closely wrapped up (literally) in the adventures of Sherlock Holmes?**

~221b~

Around and around and around. The water bubbles floated past my gaze in a circular rhythm and attempted to sooth my frazzled knitted blue fibres.

As I spun round, the dizzying view through the clear portal of the washing machine matched my tumultuous thoughts that swirled with the events of the day. Just a few short hours before; life had been flowing in its usual fast-paced, staccato bursts of detecting patterns. Episodes of frantic activity between periods of amazing stupor during which I would hang limply on my peg near the front door of flat 221B. During those times, while Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa in an apparent comatose state, I would recalibrate my fibres and reshuffle my folds in preparation for the next exhilarating chase. I loved the feel of the wind's fingers tickling my fringed edges and was always mesmerized by the dazzling array of London lights in the fog when my detective sprinted after another of 'the criminal classes'.

Typically, my detective's colleague, flatmate, blogger, what-have-you, would be trailing close on my tails. His legs were a bit shorter than Sherlock's but he had a commendable fortitude that allowed him to stay within close range of the two of us. I admit that I was a wee bit smug with my superior vantage point. I had the best views, wrapped around Sherlock's ivory neck. Whether it was examining the body of the victim first, or poking around in an abandoned building searching for the perpetrator, my snuggled location high up on Sherlock's shoulders under his dark curls was definitely better than anything John and my friend, his Sig Sauer handgun, might aspire. I couldn't help the smirk that slid onto my face when Sig grumbled, "why do I even bother? Another criminal chase and I'm the last to arrive on the scene." John had dashed valiantly after his swift-footed flatmate but somehow detoured and by the time John with and his pistol had arrived, Sherlock already had the criminal subdued and trussed up. Seems he might have fallen out of the window a few times too. Sherlock maintains he 'lost count'; according to my calculations though, the man fell nine times onto Mrs Hudson's bins.

Of course, being the first to arrive on the scene left one without backup at times. My detective has a bad habit of neglecting to call for back up. Once we entered a Chinese pottery expert's flat, Soo Lin Yao. She wasn't there but someone else was. I was hand-wrangled and forced to choke my detective by the intruder! I have never felt so helpless in all my woven life. With all my knitted heart I wished I could have strangled the black lotus acrobat until his head fell off after he forced me to throttle Sherlock. I still have nightmares. PTSD… posttraumatic strangling dreams.

But today something far worse has occurred. I don't know how to begin to describe the atrocity of it all. The horror! Every tiny blue thread in my being is repelled at the memory of it.

Everything seemed routine at the beginning. How could Sherlock ever blame himself for not anticipating the danger? No one could have known. If I could release myself from this watery whirlpool, I would swathe soft comforting folds of myself around him, a healing bandage for his broken heart. I'd envelope his neck and absorb the salty tears that stain his anxious face right now. "Not your fault," I'd whisper into his ear.

Then I'd somehow manage to float on the air currents and wing my way over to the evil Evans and cinch my lengths around his villainous neck until his face matched my own blue hue. Even that could not atone for what he's done to John Watson and my detective!

~221b~

It all began when the client, a Mr Nathan Garrideb, a benign, white-haired hermit of a professor with an odd passion for taxidermy and fossils, arrived at our flat.

"If you can help me find this third person to complete the Garrideb trio, then, Mr Holmes, I can finally be rich enough to complete my collection of rare South African butterflies and even possibly add the a Tasmanian Devil to my display." Mr Garrideb flashed the printed advertisement and peered hopefully up at the detective. His tufts of white hair and beady eyes behind thick spectacles blinked in anticipation of our assistance. It was a rather queer family name and apparently one that had now become valuable to possess.

"And how did you stumble upon this rather esoteric advertisement online?" Sherlock's sharp eyes assessed the stooped and aging professor. The man's eccentric and rather lonely existence made it unlikely that he'd simply found it while browsing the web. He was the type to be so absorbed in his research that articles relating to anything outside his anatomical subjects would go unnoticed.

"An American lawyer, another Garrideb, happened to find me," the professor explained. "Knocked on my door and told me that if we could find just one more Garrideb, we'd all be rich." He smiled involuntarily at the idea of adding to his peculiar collection of anatomical fossils. "Please, Mr Holmes, if you can help us locate this last member of the Garrideb family I'm sure we could figure an acceptable reimbursement for your efforts."

Mr Nathan Garrideb was almost childish in his anticipations. From my inconspicuous perch by the door, I perceived that Sherlock was not as convinced about the legitimacy of the whole Garrideb business. Curiously though, the detective went along with the elderly professor's request and even urged him, quite persuasively, to catch the next available train out of London to the countryside where a Mr Howard Garrideb was rumoured to reside.

"You must certainly check this out. You can't afford to miss the opportunity of a lifetime, as you say," my detective uttered with unexpected enthusiasm. In fact, so enthusiastic was he in rushing the poor professor out the door to catch the next train that I nearly ended up wrapped round the professor's neck instead of his own wrapper. I breathed a sigh of relief when Sherlock realised his mistake and replaced me back on my rightful peg. "Off you go to Aston, then. We'll do a little digging around on this end, don't you worry, Mr Garrideb," the strangely eager detective hustled the professor out the door with a cheery wave. The professor looked a bit like he'd been blown over by a hurricane as he reoriented himself at the kerb and shuffled round a couple turns until he figured out which direction to turn for the station.

"Coming?" Sherlock turned to John, with a gleam in his eye and twitch of his eyebrow that I recognised.

Without answering, John grabbed his jacket and slipped Sig in his pocket. "Ready."

The strands of my woven weave took on that familiar static tingling of anticipation as the detective called out, "the game is on!" I winked out of the corner of my tassel at John's pistol nestled in the dark recesses of his pocket. Being out in the open air, privy to the rushing scenes of the chase, was so much better.

We were headed for old Mr Nathan Garrideb's quarters. That much I knew. But why? What did Sherlock hope to find in the man's creepy collection of dead animals and fossils? Why was it so imperative that the old inhabitant go away to Ashton for a day? What did the name, Garrideb, have to do with the case? My fluffy head was full of questions. I never anticipated the events that happened next.

To be continued in chapter 2 ...


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: And now to finish off the story. Likely not a surprising ending if you're familiar with the original.**

"Shhh," Sherlock motioned for John to stay hidden in the shadows of the room. We were huddled in a corner behind a large cabinet of stuffed pheasants. I could hear the stealthy approach of a man and then the shifting of furniture and turning of the carpet. Suddenly, the creak of a rusty hinge and the revelation of a secret trap door in the floor of the room was revealed.

I saw John's eyebrows rise in surprise. "It's the American lawyer that the old professor said came to him first, with the advertisement. He's returned when he knew the old man would be away in Ashton to search the house."

My hairy tassels were all on edge at this point. How did a lawyer from American know about this hidden room under the floor of the eccentric hermit's house? What was in the secret enclave? Something sinister?

Sherlock tiptoed forward from the corner with John close at his side. I tingled with anticipation.

"Well, I see I am not alone as I'd hoped," the lawyer's head popped up suddenly over the edge of the floorboards.

"You do know how to state the obvious," Sherlock paused and I noticed that John's hand went instinctively to his pocket. Sig growled menacing undercover.

"Evans, I presume?" Sherlock answered.

"Well, yes," the man replied and wrinkled his nose in annoyance. "I'm afraid I don't have the same advantage at knowing your names. Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me, gentleman?" he gave a pointed glare at both Sherlock and John in turn. "Although it appears you are not here to assist me in my activities, you might at least give me your names so I can know with whom I am up against."

He bowed in mock greeting. "Evans, better known as Tovi the Terrible, on computer hijacking forums. And this," he indicated the room below, "as inconspicuous as it appears, is the top headquarters for my international computer hijacking network." His expression softened for a moment, "some real beauties of mega-processors down there. We have a long history together that was rudely interrupted when that antique of a professor, Mr Garrideb, settled in. He never left." He grinned. "You have to admit that idea about the last Garrideb was rather creative. Managed to get him to vacate the place long enough for me to work on removing my lovelies."

His eyes narrowed. "And now I just need you to vacate too."

Before either Sherlock or John could react, Evans jumped up from below and let loose two shots in rapid succession. The noise was deafening in the small space. Momentary confusion ensued as simultaneously the glass shattered in a cacophony of splintering echoes while John let out a heart-stopping scream of pain.

"John!" my detective cried out in a tone I hope never to witness to again. "Are you hurt?" I could feel the tremor in his voice and the heaving of his chest as he tried to control the panic that mounted with the growing red stain spreading across the thigh of John's trousers. Within seconds, Sherlock had snatched Sig from John's fingers and smashed the butt of the handle over the computer hijacker's skull. He fell with a thud upon the floor, unconscious yet still breathing.

"John, tell me you're ok." My detective's nimble fingers tore off his flatmates trousers while his keen gaze tried to assess the source of the bleeding.

John's eyelids fluttered open briefly and his lips whispered weakly. "Just a scratch, mate. Pressure bandage. Just need to stop the bleeding." He collapsed his head against Sherlock's chest as the detective cradled his wounded friend in his lap.

"Help!" I tried to scream but of course, inanimate objects aren't particularly known for having loud audible voices. John's Sig Sauer had helped and knocked out the criminal. I fluttered helplessly around Sherlock's neck, flustered at my flimsy flexible makeup. What could I do? I wasn't solid enough to knock out a criminal. I wasn't firm enough to carry John's head.

I was jerked violently out of my shock when Sherlock tore me from his neck. "Don't throw me away just because I can't shoot." I begged silently. But Sherlock had no intention of discarding me. Instead he wrapped me around John's leg. He bound me round the bleeding and tightened my ends until the free flowing crimson dwindled. The scarlet stain stopped blossoming. Hot blood soaked into my fibres. I felt soggy. I was suddenly awash with an overwhelming salty- iron taste. I gagged but held fast. The rest of my consciousness narrowed to the simple act of clinging to John's leg. "Stop the bleeding, stop the bleeding," I chanted.

Somewhere within my red haze, Sherlock managed to call the paramedics and the police. I vaguely recall officers hauling off the intruder, still dazed from his head thumping. Then there was the ambulance ride to the hospital. Only when we were safely in the theatre was I relieved of my duties as tourniquet. The surgeons tossed me aside as they focused on saving John. It was Sherlock who came to my rescue later. He found me limp and exhausted in a pile of soiled linens. My natural soft blue folds were hard and crusted black with dried blood.

My detective thoughtfully picked me out of the pile and took me home to 221B. His own visage was marred with dried tears and streaks of dirt too. Neither of us presented a pretty picture to Mrs Hudson upon our arrival.

Wisely, our landlady tossed me directly into the washing machine and shooed my detective off to the shower. "You'll feel better after a proper bath and tea," she fussed. "There's nothing more you can do for John. He's under the best of care at the hospital. Go, wash."

The water turned crimson. Sherlock watched it flow in rivulets down his body, rinsing off the blood and dirt from the day's fiasco at Garrideb's residence. He scrubbed under his fingernails at the stubborn traces of grime. He noticed a bruise on his palm where he'd slammed the butt of the pistol across Evan's head.

The rinse water in the washing machine was crimson coloured as it seeped into my fibres and sluiced away the blood. The soap bubbles swarmed through me and scrubbed away the last remaining clots that clung to the corners of my interlacing threads. I noticed a small rip in my weave where someone had been a bit rough in his or her manipulation of me during the emergency.

The events of the past few hours slowly seeped away and the tumbling of the washing machine finally ceased. Sherlock turned off the shower water and dried himself. He refreshed himself with tea and biscuits brought up by Mrs Hudson while I refreshed myself on the fluff-dry cycle of the dryer.

"That was a call from the hospital," Mrs Hudson sat down next to Sherlock with a contented sigh. "John's out of theatre and expected to wake up from anaesthesia soon. His condition is still considered serious but the nurse sounded optimistic."

In those low rumbling tones that I'd come to recognize and love so well, Sherlock slipped into his Belstaff and with his agile fingers and in his routine manner now so familiar, wrapped me around his neck, "I'm off then," he called over his shoulder, "off to the hospital to check on John."

My frayed edges soaked in the crisp breeze as it teased and pulled on my ends. John was going to be fine. I could feel the spring in Sherlock's step. We both could sense it in the depth of our fibres.

The End

~221b~

 _You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"_ _It was worth a wound — it was worth many wounds — to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation._ _"It's nothing, Holmes. It's a mere scratch."_ _He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife._ _"You are right," he cried with an immense sigh of relief. "It is quite superficial." His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. "By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?"_ The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, ACD 


End file.
